


Late Shift

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Idiots in Love, John and Sherlock are fine and will always be, M/M, Post S1 fic, accidental happy ending, but slightly different, post-pool, sometimes you just need to talk about it, spilled wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: Found this in my dropbox. Wrote it last year when I was upset with S4 and wanted to go back to S1 love.





	Late Shift

**Author's Note:**

> Found this in my dropbox. Wrote it last year when I was upset with S4 and wanted to go back to S1 love.

John had been awake for much longer than he had intended. Sherlock had gone off on a case, casually ensuring him that he would not be needed, and had taken off. What worried John was that he had not taken his phone, and, upon following up on a premonition, he found that his gun was missing.

He had sat down and finished a book he had started over a year ago, before he had moved in with Sherlock and before the gun became a means to an end other than his possible escape route. He had scanned the pages, his eyes following the lines carefully, but after he had closed it he found that he couldn't remember a single thing he had read.

He had considered trying to hack into Sherlock's phone, but he knew he would fail. He might have called Lestrade, just to see whether he knew anything, or he could have tried to get in touch with Mycroft, though that should always be a last resort and nothing about Sherlock's behaviour had been out of the ordinary or actually worrying. So he sat on the couch and stared at the empty living room for a while, a cup of tea gone cold long ago.

The room looked empty. He rarely ever sat on the couch, which he had always identified as Sherlock's place in their living room, next to his chair. He had never once sat in Sherlock's chair, which struck him as somehow absurd, but it was and had always been Sherlock's. And the couch served as an alternative seat if a client or Mycroft had - accidentally in the first and on purpose in the second case - sat down in his chair. And now he saw the room from Sherlock's perspective, empty, unnaturally so, even though their collective clutter was everywhere.

When he couldn't stand staring at the empty space any longer, he made a fire, poured himself a large glass of red wine and sat down in his chair. He tried to think of all the impossible moments in which Sherlock had survived - against all odds and despite his occasional glaring lack of judgement. Sherlock always bounced back, somehow, and even though John rarely understood how he managed, he seemed to walk away from it all without any issues.

And yet, he wondered whether Sherlock could truly detach himself from what had happened. He had been mostly excited by the events at the pool but John had noticed a change in Sherlock's behaviour towards him. Whenever John had announced that he was going to spend the evening elsewhere, he had asked for specifics as if John ever had planned on being kidnapped, he thought, feeling somewhat embittered by the frequency in which these events occurred.

Sherlock had also started taking better care of him during dangerous cases, obviously forgetting that John was the soldier. More than once John had had to remind him that he was the one know knew how to disarm a man and to kill if needed. And more than once, Sherlock had cocked his head and looked at him as if he has said something endearing. John wasn't sure why that didn't bother him even though he was decidedly aware that it should.

Blinking, he found himself back in their living room, feeling that maybe he should have insisted on following him, because in the end Sherlock had consciously met Moriarty at the pool, unknowing that John had been taken, of course, but very conscious of the possibility that he might die on the occasion. Maybe he should start doing what Sherlock had started doing to him; ask more questions, check for hints that he was not quite telling the truth, asking where he was going and who he was meeting there.

With a sigh John realised that it rarely happened and that the fact that Sherlock had not told him was the true reason for his worry. He knew he should feel safer for the gun Sherlock had taken, but he remembered the snipers and he remembered that the gun had not been more than an amusing gimmick to Moriarty. John wondered whether Sherlock would have ever truly considered shooting but he had never doubted for one second that the danger had been real and that the snipers would have fired upon command. He was still certain that Sherlock had underestimated Moriarty.

He finished his wine and poured himself a second glass, knowing that he would not be able to sleep until Sherlock returned home. It did not take him long to finish it, and after he had, he emptied the rest of the bottle into the glass and, reaching out blindly, tipped over the empty bottle as he put it down on the floor next to his chair.

"Maybe it's time to stop drinking?"

John jumped, almost tipping over his glass as well. "Jesus. Sherlock!"

"I apologise," he said quietly. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Are you alright?" John noticed the apology but it was too outlandish for him to be able to react accordingly. "Why did you leave your phone?" He sounded much more accusatory than worried, but the wine made it hard to hold back.

"I couldn't have any identification on me. I left my wallet as well."

It made sense, of course it made sense.

"Why did you take the gun?"

"A mere precaution"

"Did you fire it?"

"It was fired twice."

"I'm running out of ammunition."

Sherlock cocked his head at him and walked forward, letting himself fall into his chair. "May I?"

John handed him his glass and Sherlock's fingers closed around his as his own refused to let go of it. "Sorry," he apologised awkwardly, being met with a strangely nervous look.

"Why are you still awake?"

"Because ..." John stopped, feeling very tired all of the sudden. "I wanted to make sure that you are alright."

"I'm always ..."

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock! You are not always alright. And you took the gun and fired it twice. How am I supposed to not worry about you?"

"Are you upset I did not ask you to come along?" Sherlock carefully leaned back, the glass almost at his lips, but waiting.

"No. Yes. I don't know. What I know is that you left in a way that made me worry about you."

Sherlock drank. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" John stared at him, wondering whether Sherlock had hit his head. "You worry about me, don't you?"

Sherlock hid behind the wine glass for a moment before he nodded.

"So, you do understand."

"I do?"

"Sherlock, what is going on? Why are you like that?"

"Don't be absurd, John. Everything is fine."

It was the way he said it, a little too loudly, as if he wanted to make himself believe that what he had said was true.

John wondered whether he should just go to bed, finally being able to rest now that Sherlock was home. But everything about Sherlock's behaviour told him that Sherlock shouldn't be alone right now.

"Can I do anything?" he offered instead of countering Sherlock's words.

The wine glass almost slipped from Sherlock's fingers and while he managed to catch it, some of it spilled on his stomach, leaving bloodied traces on his cream coloured shirt. For a second, he just sat there, unmoving, looking at the glass in his hand as if he couldn't quite believe that this had happened.

John got up, feeling light headed for a second, and made his way into the kitchen, wetting a tea towel and taking it back. Sherlock still sat in his chair and just when John went down on one knee to soak up what he could of the wine, Sherlock took the glass in his other hand and licked at the drops of wine which still clung to his fingers.

John swallowed hard. He had seen Sherlock do a lot of things with his mouth and his hands and none of them had struck him as sensual before. But right then he felt a spark of heat travelling down his spine and settle in the small of his back. "May I?" he asked, sounding breathless, clearing his throat before he began dipping the tea towel against Sherlock's stomach.

"John, I can have it cleaned, you don't have to."

"But it might be ruined if we don't do anything now."

"Salt."

"Hmm?"

"Salt soaks up moisture and colour pigments."

"Right." John pushed Sherlock's hands out of the way and made him hold the wet tea towel with his free hand as he began unbuttoning his shirt. He had done it a handful of times, usually when Sherlock had been injured or preoccupied. When he reached his stomach, Sherlock sucked in a breath and John grinned. "Almost done."

"Hmm." Something in Sherlock's voice made John look up at him and he found Sherlock looking at him with a feverish expression.

"Are you sure you are alright?"

Sherlock nodded. "Hurry up."

"Right," John frowned as he loosened the final button and carefully spread open the shirt. He saw that some of the wine had soaked through to his skin. More to tease Sherlock than for any other reason, he tugged the tea towel from his hand and wiped at his stomach. Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat and quickly drank more wine as if to distract from it.

"Get up," John ordered, rising. "I can't take your shirt off when you are sitting down."

Sherlock stood and John handed him the tea towel again, only realising that he'd need Sherlock's hands free. So he undid his wrist cuffs before he took the towel and the glass from him and placed them on the small table. Then he stood behind Sherlock, tugging at the shirt and slowly pulling it off his shoulders and down his arms, careful not to let the wet part of his shirt touch anything else. Then he carried it into the kitchen and carefully laid it out in the sink, mechanically sprinkling salt on the red patch, trying to forget the way Sherlock's muscles had moved under his hands.

"John?" Sherlock suddenly stood behind him and John wondered whether he was being particularly stealthy tonight or whether he was just on edge that he jumped at any unexpected noise.

"Hmm?"

"You don't have to take care of that. It's not your fault."

"It isn’t?" John asked before he could stop himself.

Sherlock was quiet, looking at him with wide eyes as if trying to figure out whether he was being serious or not. "I did not expect you to be kind," Sherlock admitted. "You are right. I should have told you where I was going and why."

John frowned. "What brought on the change of mind?"

"You. Being kind."

John frowned. "I don't follow."

"You reminded me that I would be worried about you."

"Oh, you forgot, did you?"

"No," Sherlock looked down, avoiding his eyes and John allowed himself a minute to let his eyes wander down his body. He wasn't as scrawny as he had been when he had met him and even though there were a few additional scars on him, he had gained a bit of weight. He looked strong now.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock?"

"Right," Sherlock seemed to emerge from deep thought and John exhaled noisily, turned around and switched the kettle on.

"You still have some ..." he indicated his stomach and Sherlock wiped his hand across his lower stomach, making John swallow against a sudden restricting feeling in his throat. "Go and get a t-shirt and then we talk."

"I thought you might want to sleep?"

"I can't. Not now. And you obviously need to talk."

"I do?"

"Sherlock. Look at you. This isn't you. So, let's talk about it, hmm?"

Sherlock shrugged and walked past him to get to his bedroom. He emerged in his pyjamas and his blue dressing gown. John had to smile, because this was the private person he knew and not the world famous consulting detective without a shirt on.

John had fixed their tea and sat down in his chair, moving it a little closer to Sherlock's so they could talk quietly. Then he placed another log into the fire and waited until Sherlock had sat down as well.

"Okay, so, talk to me."

"I don't know what to say."

"Well, start at the beginning," John had to smile when Sherlock's lips quirked, but then his eyebrows knitted together and he shook his head. "It wouldn't make sense to do that. In any case, this is about tonight."

"How long have you been working on the case?" John was surprised. He had not expected that Sherlock had been working on the case for longer as he usually updated John on a regular basis. Sherlock seemed equally surprised.

"Case?"

"Yes," John frowned. "Tonight's case."

"I didn't... I wasn't referring to the case," Sherlock seemed stuck as if he had meant to speak about something else entirely.

"Well, what were you referring to?"

"Us?" Sherlock pulled his legs up so he could rest his elbows on his knees and almost disappear from the world.

"Us." John repeated the word as if saying it might help him understand.

"You asked why I changed my mind."

"Yes."

"Because I remembered what it feels like, knowing that you might be taken away from me."

"Taken away from you? I'm not your dog, Sherlock."

Sherlock cringed, as if he was actually hurt by John's words. "Redbeard is an entirely different case. He was put down."

John gaped at him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ..."

"No, John, listen. I know this might come as a surprise to you, but I ... I care about you. Not like I cared for my dog, but you are ... you are the only one who puts up with me and I sometimes forget how ... there is only you."

John waited, somewhat surprised that Sherlock was taking him seriously and was, in fact, talking about his emotions.

"What I mean is that I don't want to lose you, and I am quite, quite certain of that. Yet, I am not used to have anyone return the sentiment."

"You mean you forget that I don't want to lose you?"

Sherlock stared at him across his tea cup. Then he nodded curtly.

"Well, I would appreciate it if you might remember it more often, because I was close to calling Mycroft to ask him whether he knew what had happened to you."

"So, you really stayed up, because you care about me."

"Obviously, I told you ..."

"No. Not quite. You implied."

"So, you do know."

"I was reminded."

"Right. So, yes, I stayed up because I care and I wanted to make sure that you would be okay."

"About me?" Sherlock asked and John frowned again.

"Sorry?"

"You care about me?"

"Of course I do." John felt the tips of his ears go pink and suddenly all of this felt much more like an investigation rather than a heart to heart, although he wasn't sure that in Sherlock's mind these were two different concepts.

"You had a rather strong reaction to the wine."

"I drank two glasses in a relatively short amount of time."

"On me."

"Hmm?"

"Not the wine you drank. The wine I spilled."

"Well, your shirt."

Sherlock nodded, watching him calmly.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock, what are you implying."

"Well, you never cared about my clothes before."

"Same question."

"Don't get defensive, John."

"I'm not. I just want to know what ..." he stopped talking, realising that he was being defensive. Sherlock was right. "Sorry."

"Did you want to touch me?"

John gaped, remembering his stomach against his fingers, his strong shoulders under his palms. "To make sure you are alright."

Sherlock smiled a genuine wide smile which confused John more than he was willing to admit. He also tried his hardest to ignore the heat he had felt earlier which was back, and much more pronounced now, spreading from the small of his back into his belly and down.

"What are we doing?" John asked, watching Sherlock with his heart in his throat.

"Well, as I said, it's useless to start at the beginning."

"How do you mean?"

"I did not want to risk your well-being tonight, so I went incognito. It's not that I did not trust you to help me, but I knew that I had to do what I had to do without putting you into the line of fire.

"What did you do?"

Sherlock swallowed. "I killed Moriarty."

John stared at him. He must have done that for a long while because when he forced himself to inhale again he found Sherlock much closer to him, looking worried.

"We are free of him."

"You shot Moriarty?"

"Well, technically, he killed himself."

"Just like that?"

"It might have been an accident."

"Sherlock!"

"He saw right through my disguise, and he recognised the gun and disarmed me and then, well, he tripped."

"Sherlock. I know I have had some wine and I am fairly sleep deprived but you are not just making this up to talk your way out of ..."

"No."

"He tripped."

"It was dark and he was not familiar with the surroundings. He fired the gun, the bullet ricocheted and hit him. Really disappointing after all this build up."

"Not funny, Sherlock." Nevertheless, John couldn't quite hide a smile, but he forced himself to sober up again. "What about that second bullet."

"He tried to shoot me."

"He didn't hit you."

"He might be a genius and one of the most dangerous men in the world, but he is a terrible shot."

"But he managed to shoot himself." John felt hysterical laughter bubble up inside of him and he could see the tension leave Sherlock's shoulders - tension he had not quite recognised because he was so used to Sherlock being winded up that it had a rather impressive impact once it changed. "Are you alright, though?"

This time, Sherlock did not ignore his question. "Quite alright."

"Is that why you dropped the wine glass?"

"I merely spilled ..."

John's eye brow rose and Sherlock smirked. "Fine, I dropped the glass. I didn't know how to tell you and I ... I just realised something."

"Sherlock," John hoped to be able to push him back on track before he grew too tired to be patient with him.

"You are not in danger anymore."

John stared, waiting for more information.

Sherlock swallowed. "He had to die, John. He kept threatening you."

"What?"

"I did not want to worry you, so I kept most of the threats to myself so you wouldn't know."

"But you wanted to kill him because he threatened me?"

"He knew hurting you would be the only way to hurt me."

"The pool. I remember, he said something ..."

Sherlock looked away, trying to make himself even smaller in his chair and John reached out, squeezing his hand.

"Was he serious?"

Sherlock looked up and held his gaze for a while. "Not then, not truly. Not like now."

"What changed?"

"Well, I had not really thought about it until he kept talking about it."

"By it you mean ...?"

"You, what you are to me."

"Ah."

"And before the pool I did not know that you would put yourself at risk in such a way. I knew then, that's why I couldn't take you with me. You might have ..."

John nodded. "I would have."

"So, you understand?"

"I do now, yes. Thank you for telling me."

A long silence stretched between them, each thinking about the implications of their conversations.

Finally, John looked at him again. "Did you mind?"

"John, you might think I can read thoughts, but ..."

"Oh, of course. I mean, Moriarty, being dead," John cleared his throat and sipped on his tea.

"That is not what you were going to ask," Sherlock remarked, unfolding his body and sitting up straight again. "But to answer your question, I don't know yet. I am mostly relieved."

"What did you think I was going to ask?" John bit his lip, watching Sherlock's eyes settle on something to his left.

"Whether I minded your behaviour."

"Behaviour?"

"The undressing."

John snorted. "Really, the undressing?"

"John!" Sherlock sounded pained and John sobered up, suddenly understanding that Sherlock was, after all, entirely serious and had probably tried to address it for a while.

"Did you mind me touching you like I did?" he asked, forcing himself to look into his eyes.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, keeping eye contact. The light was too weak for John to see whether he had blushed, but somehow he looked like he had nevertheless.

"Would you mind if ..." Sherlock's breath hitched.

"Hmm?" John's heart was beating heavily in his chest.

"If ... that happened more often?"

"Sherlock, are you asking me out?"

Sherlock frowned, obviously taken aback.

"Sorry, I did not mean to mock you. I just ... are you saying ... proposing ... are you?"

"Proposing?"

"A physical aspect to our relationship?" John asked carefully, remembering once again the sensuality of Sherlock's tongue on his fingers. Suddenly it was very warm in the room.

"I'm not proposing. I'm asking. If you would mind."

John was sure that Sherlock had blushed to the roots of his hair. "Usually that kind of proposition is made nonverbally."

"You are referring to a kiss."

"Yes."

"Well, I did not want to risk ..."

John leaned back in his chair looking at his best friend who had managed to rid the earth of a criminal mastermind and who asked him to be more than friends in the most roundabout way John could imagine. And he loved him for it.

He swallowed.

He loved him.

"How long," he asked quietly, feeling his pulse in his ears.

"I don't know. It just ... happened. A while now."

"You would have died without telling me?"

Sherlock shook his head and pulled a crumpled note from his pyjama pocket. "I know he would have taken it to you had he succeeded in killing me. He would have known that it would have hurt you."

John realised that Sherlock must have taken the note with him when he had gotten changed. He had known that this would be the time they would talk it out. Somehow, the thought made him feel proud of Sherlock, even if he couldn't quite say why. "Then why did you write it?"

"Because you deserve to know. Even if you don't feel the same."

"What makes you say that?"

"You haven't ..."

"Oh." John realised that Sherlock was right. He had jumped right into forcing Sherlock to be more specific rather than actually reacting to his confession. He held out his hand and used it to pull himself up. Then he tugged at Sherlock's hand to make him stand up, too. And suddenly they were toe to toe, Sherlock looking flustered, his pulse visibly racing in his neck.

John reached up a hand to feel it, wondering whether it was really just now that he had understood what he felt for Sherlock. When his breath hitched at his touch, John was certain that he had felt that way for much longer than he was aware of.

"May I?" he asked, moving his hand up to Sherlock's face, pulling him down a little.

"Please," Sherlock whispered, his eyelids fluttering.

John rose just a little to meet him and he pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips, making a small noise in surprise at how soft they were. Sherlock mirrored that noise and leaned forward, lightly opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. And John felt a rush of adrenaline shoot through him and he moaned loudly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock tightly, feeling Sherlock's arms securely around his own back.

When they parted, Sherlock looked feverish again, but this time John wasn't worried. "We need to sleep."

"Quite," Sherlock agreed and smiled at John. "I apologise for worrying you."

"I apologise for doubting you."

"You had every right."

"Will I get to read your note?"

"Not now," Sherlock shook his head. "Maybe one day."

John nodded. "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You are not...?"

"No. We need to sleep."

"What if I slept better if you were close by?"

"Are you worried that you might have nightmares?"

"Well, it's hard to tell."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

Sherlock went to prepare for bed first while John cleared the dishes away and marvelled at the turn of events. How profound some changes could seem that were really only a small redefinition of the status quo.

When he entered Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock sat in the middle of the bed, looking half asleep already. "Which side do you sleep on?"

"Whichever is free," John smiled and switched off the light.

Sherlock made room for him and lifted the cover. There was only one large duvet, John noticed with a funny feeling in his stomach as his own thigh touched Sherlock's knee.

"May I?" Sherlock asked, taking hold of John's hand, squeezing gently.

"Of course," John smiled and closed his eyes.

"He was wrong," Sherlock said after a while, quiet enough to not wake John up had he already been asleep. But John had not drifted off yet and turned his head to look at him.

"About what?"

"He did not burn my heart out of me." Sherlock sounded a tiny bit proud and John had to smile.

"No. He did not, did he?"


End file.
